Take Little Steps
by delga
Summary: Hawkes fic. Boy, you gotta learn to walk and not run. Five moments that turn the tide.


**Take Little Steps.**

With thanks to my beta, cloudedvision.

* * *

**Take Little Steps. **

**one. **

Once, when he was little, he fell over and grazed his knees. The skin split open, revealing pink flesh to the hot summer air. His grandma had lifted him onto the table and pressed a wet cloth against the wound, making it sting. "Boy, you gotta learn to walk, and not run. Take little steps; quit throwing yourself at the floor, d'you hear?" But he was too busy watching the blood seep through the lines of his knee caps, and blossoming through his grandma's white cotton cloth to pay much heed to her words.

**two. **

—and it's the way the life passes through your fingers that makes you feel sick. You feel it disappear, brushing your fingers as it makes for the door, and you tally up all the errors you made and all the chances you missed to make things right. The numbers pile up in your head, beating in the feeling that you're not cut out for this life.

You leave the ER, burst out the doors and retch emptily. Your pulse drums out a heavy rhythm in your ears; the lights in the ambulance bay blur in your vision making you dizzy, and you sit down on the rain drenched floor, head in your hands and scrubs covered in blood. _Too much, too much, too much_.

Nobody comes for you. You're just another burnt out intern. You're just another mess of a kid who couldn't cut the pace. You're just another failure.

**three. **

"—the left, Hawkes! Man, what is you trauma today?" Tyler's a loud mouth, but there's nowhere Sheldon would rather be than this down beat ball court in the middle of what is turning out to be a ridiculously languorous Saturday. Taking the ball up, he swings down the court and misses the hoop for the third time that day, and Tyler's all up in his face for it but Hawkes knows it's all in jest. Well, mostly. "Man, you losin' your touch, doctor-man."

"Shut up, Latin-Boy."

"Whoa, straight for the _gut_!" Tyler punctuates the sentiment by slamming the ball into Sheldon's chest and he feels the air leave him with a smack. He'd protest but Tyler's been his best friend since before time began; he's a little cocky, a lot loyal and heading on to bigger and better things.

"Yeah man, I got this gig down in Orleans with this forensic group. Said if I pass my prelims here in-city, it's all a go. It's going to be awesome, man."

Tyler's had this goal, clear and bright, ever since he was a kid and some criminalist came to the school to talk to them about fighting crime in the neighbourhood. He's known what he's wanted and he's worked hard to get it, too. Sheldon had a goal, too, once upon a time, but in the end it just wasn't enough just to want it.

The ball totally blindsides him; next thing he knows, he's on the ground, Tyler running across to him from the distance. He throws himself on the floor next to his friend, and hauls Sheldon up so that he's not lying dead on the floor. "Quit worrying about it, man. Look, if you want, I can ask around in the city and see if the ME's office needs anyone. Those people are all up in anatomy, man. For real. Other day? I saw this dead guy with a mallet shoved through his skull. Totally awesome."

Sheldon thinks about it. Wonders if it's worth the effort. Then he takes a look at his best friend and figures, yeah, why not? Maybe this is the second chance he needs. "Through his skull?"

"Hell yeah." Tyler nods, "Not pretty. All I'm saying is that dude ain't not getting an open casket, if you know what I mean."

Sheldon laughs. He jumps up, grabs the ball. _Second chance_. Maybe.

"Five dollars says I can get to ten hoops before you."

**four. **

You like this space; it feels safe. The cool stone is solid and reassuring; the blue New York light filters through high windows and brushes past the wide arches. It's comfortable here, safe. You don't care that it's removed from the hustle and bustle of city life; that pace holds no charm for you, not anymore. Here in the depths of the morgue, you are in control; you are in command.

The pace here is workable, and never a dull moment, either. You snap on a new pair of gloves; pull the next body out of cold storage and onto your table; swing the light around until the white glare hits the pale, lifeless body. Instruments are lined up, clean and sharp in a tray next to the plateau, as though you're about to perform a delicate surgery. But this is different. These life-saving measures take more time and occur post hoc. You make the cut, whilst others pieces fragments together. It's all about evidence, you hear them say. _Everything's connected_. Everywhere but in the morgue, of course, where you pull the skin away from the flesh; put parts away to uncover the truths hidden within.

You cut deep and sure; you work quickly and efficiently, noting unusual discolorations, oddities. Stella will want COD within the hour; Mac will be in later for the results on the next body. You collect trace, you pronounce your findings and you sew up the cadaver before moving onto the next one.

The rhythms here are comforting, if not monotonous; the days roll in and out like gurneys, smooth across the linoleum. But it's enough. It has to be enough, you make yourself content with your lot. You chose this, after all. Sometimes it can get hectic, especially when the heat flicks a switch and sends the city up in arms. But this is your cold domain, you are the king of the castle and here, at least, you can be of use. Can't kill a dead man, can you?

The door swings open; Stella trots in. The world outside is turning still. "What've you got for me, Doc?"

**five. **

"Did you know that snake is a delicacy in China?" He hovers in Mac's doorway with a smile.

His boss looks up amusedly. "Really?"

"No, seriously," Hawkes steps fully into the room, building up the details the way he's learned over the past few months, trace report secure in his hand. "Eating snake is a Cantonese tradition that goes back to the Han Dynasty."

"I'm going to assume you have a point?" Mac asks, eyebrow cocked. Sheldon only grins more. He pushes the report under Mac's nose.

"Vic's stomach contents. Peanuts, crackers and…"

"Snake?"

"Yes indeed."

"That's not likely to be a common dish," Mac notes.

"My thoughts exactly," Hawkes replies, taking the seat in front of the desk. He leans forward, excitedly; he loves this part best, delivering the blow, the final knot. "So I made few enquiries. Turns out there's only one place in Manhattan that serves this particular dish. Guess who owns it?"

Mac smiles as the pieces of the puzzle come together under Hawkes' hands; Sheldon is grinning like the cat that got the cream, bursting with energy. He feels good; he feels _amazing_. He feels like he's finally making a difference. The OCME position may have been a good life but nothing beats that feeling when all the evidence falls into place; nothing can beat the feeling of that success pounding headfirst through his bloodstream like pure adrenaline.

Later that afternoon, after the suspect is brought in and all the evidence is boxed, ready for trial, he grabs his jacket, makes his goodbyes, and makes his way into the evening air; it feels good, cool against his flushed skin. He feels like he can take on the world. He gets home, cooks himself a meal and sits down to watch the game when his pager goes off.

The food goes uneaten. Instead, it's back out in the field, another crime scene, another corpse, another case. He turns the key in the lock and laughs. Life feels _good_.

**fin. **


End file.
